


A touch

by katiebuttercup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: Sherlock may, may be a tiny bit jelaous, maybeEdit: much of the dialogue (mostly at the end) belongs to the original author)





	A touch

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Just A Touch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8212696) by [lilsherlockian1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsherlockian1975/pseuds/lilsherlockian1975). 



It was completely irrational Sherlock knew, the grit in the lens, the flaw in the otherwise spotless machine.

He knows John has a way with women, even though he knows John isn’t interested in Molly *that* way his easy charm, the way Molly laughs and smiles in his presence rubs Sherlock the wrong way.

Because.

Because.

Because there are no awkward pauses with Molly and John, no flattery (however true, he had liked her hair, it had suited her better) to get access to what he and no business viewing.

John had never insulted her looks, trampled all over her heart and never realized until it was too late.

No hesitant kiss on the cheek that had been a goodbye as well as a thank you.

Sherlock narrows his eyes as Molly and John giggle over their shift at the hospital.

“I still say the rash looked like Texas,” Molly aserts.

“Nope. Defiantly Florida,” John disagrees good naturedly.

“I can’t believe you dared me to ask the patient which state he thought it looked like,” Molly grouses as she and John open cupboards and start making tea. Mary smiles into Rosie’s sparse hair.

“I can’t believe you actually did it!” John retorts,

Molly gently pushes John’a shoulder, “Don’t challenge me to truth or dare John Watson, I take it very seriously.”

The conversation moves on but it sticks with Sherlock. Mary squeezes his hand in sympathy. There is no hiding from Mary Watson.

He watches them move about his kitchen, talking and laughing and wishes for once he was more like John and less like him. Wishes he could make Molly smile at him that way, sweet and fearless.

There are at least a hundred other moments that Sherlock hasn’t locked in a file cabinet in his mind palace and uses to torture himself in the dead of the night. It’s a useful tool when he gets to close to Molly. He can still feel the way Molly had stood beside him at Rosie’s christening, how natural it felt.

The sentiment that had always felt cloying and unnatural had finally felt right. He’d kept his hand on his phone not only to keep up with cases but to keep from reaching for Molly’s hand.

They’d come so far, but still there was a hesitance in Molly’s friendship. She was always aware of him, he realized, waiting for him to ask her for something after a complement, or to make a deduction about her appearance or dating life (thankfully non exsistant since Tom) he’d used up all his good will there.

Maybe if she hadn’t looked so pretty at the christening, maybe if the sun hadn’t cast her in such a golden glow when John had asked her to be godmother to Rosie he’d been safe.

It’s a lie, hed been screwed for a long time. Know he just knew why.

It finally comes to a head with a shoddy lie and John Watson.

Mrs Hudson and Molly always take tea together, a time to catch up and gossip. He know Mary feels a little left out even though she enjoys coming on cases with him and John. It is also a good source of information he could never get from Molly.

Mrs Hudson is an invaluable source of infomantion on Molly Hooper. He acts bored when Mrs Hudson relates her time with Molly but he’s actually avidly listening, drinking in the information, carefully storing it, adding it to his mind palace Molly avatar.

The lie is remarkably bad, Molly is usually much better at deception but she’s clearly rattled. She gets up abruptly and leaves. Everyone holds their breath for a moment and then John follows her.

Sherlock opens his mouth and then closes it. Puts his tea cup back on its saucer and picks it up again. He hates that John’s instinct is to help, to take care of others. He hates that he’s probably making Molly feel much better then he ever could.

Mary inclines her head, “go on,” she encourages.

Sherlock stands, oscillating and then he follows, if he’s almost running no one mentions it.

He slows when he approaches Molly and John, scowling when he hears John say:

“ Because he's afraid."

Molly laughs. "Of what? What could he possibly be afraid of?"

"Yes, John. That's a good question. What is it that has me so scared?" Sherlock interjects.

John, of course, turns around. "Sherlock, I had this well in…"

"Answer the question, John," Sherlock growls.

"I was saying… It's just that Molly here was…" John stammers, then looks at her and then back at Sherlock, sighing heavily. "Nothing. Of course you're afraid of nothing."

"Mary's ready to leave and Rosie is getting fussy," Sherlock says.

John nods then walks up to Molly. "It's gonna be okay," he whispers then kisses her cheek as he hugs her. It makes something compress in Sherlock’s chest. Jealousy makes him snap, "John, Mary's waiting,"

"Right. See you later, Molls," the doctor levels a glare at his best friend which Sherlock ignores

Once he was gone, Sherlock allows himself a step forward "Why'd you leave? It's tea day."

"Tea day?"

"Yes, the day you and Mrs. Hudson enjoy tea and gossip,"

"I just felt like leaving," she answers, abandoning her earlier lie. Sherlock took another step and did something he swore he wouldn’t do to Molly anymore. He deduced her

"I think I know what's going on, Molly,"

"I'm sure you do, Sherlock. You… always do. But if you could just keep your dedu…" Molly sounds resigned

"You'll have a baby of your own someday. I'm sure of it." The presence of Rosie had shifted all their priorities. What had once been a chore had begun to be a joy. And Rosie was on track to being a better detective then her father. Which admittedly wasn’t saying much but she was only a few months old.

He feels better now, Knowing the source of her sadness, now he can make an attempt to make it better.

Something flickers in her eyes and she smiles ruefully, “yes of course, maybe”

There was an awkward pause, then Sherlock says "I'm not afraid, you know, of touching you."

"Oh."

"Well, that is... afraid isn't the right word. It's just different with you, Molly."

Molly nods but not with understanding. He needs to elaborate

"I've never hurt Mary, you see. Never told her that her hair looks nice a certain way so that I could look at a dead man's feet. I've never insulted her at a Christmas party. I saved Mary from Magnussen's threats, but you? I let you date James Moriarty. And instead of deducing him for what he was, I commented about your weight. It's easier with Mary. You and I- our history..."

“We've moved past all that, Sherlock. I just want us to be friends, proper friends." Molly assures him, she’s always doing that, making it easier for him

"Really?" he can’t keep the hope from his voice even if Mycroft was standing right next to him.

“Of course,” her smile is warm and gentle. Something warm blossoms in his chest. Makes him stupid. Makes him bold. He takes a step closer to her.

“And friends...touch?”

"Yeah, course. I mean we have before, ya know."

"That's right, we have." His smile was bittersweet "But last time, if I remember correctly, you were engaged." He glances down at her hands. Fingers unadorned.

"Why should that make a difference?"

"Perhaps there's something to the notion of safety, Molly." Taking her left hand in his he studies it for a moment. "I do want you to be happy. I meant that."

Even if it made him miserable. He’d found an untapped source of bravery that day in the corridor, a bravery that had nothing to do with facing down a gun. Letting Molly find happiness somewhere else with barely a protest. He didn’t feel guilty that he was immeasurably happy when it had ended only proved he was still selfish, still Sherlock Holmes. He wasn’t a hero. He was a man.

“I am happy,” Molly says, “why would you think?..,”

He can’t look at her, can’t look into her beautiful brown eyes and confess. But her hands, her gorgeous, competent, gentle hands, he can look his fill.

“Sometimes we deny ourselves something greatly desired because it's not what we deserve." His thumb gently ghosted across her pulse point. "Because we squandered it long ago."

"I don't understand," she whispers clearly overwhelmed with his proximity and touch.

He finally tears his eyes away from their joined hands. "I don't touch you, Molly because I'm afraid if I do… I simply won't be able to stop." He feels so sad, regretful, tortured

"I wouldn't mind that." Molly says softly. Sherlock breathes through his nose in an attempt at control he’s clearly losing. Hope, that insidious, immortal thing he cannot truly kill leaps into his throat, makes his lips twitch into a smile.

“Nor I, but...”

 

“No, please. No buts. Just…" She takes a step closer and places her right hand on his chest, over his heart. "You've squandered nothing, Sherlock. I forgave you a long time ago for the things you said, the things you did. But I will find it much harder to forgive you for withholding yourself from me because of some misguided sense of obligation.” She takes a deep breath, he marvels at her bravery. “If you're not interested in anything beyond friendship with me, I can live with that. I can. I care for you and will continue to care for you no matter what.” She pauses significantly, gathers herself, opens her heart.

“But if there's more here…" She clutches a little tighter to his suit jacket. "...then don't you think we owe it to each other to pursue it? See if…"

She’s done this once before at Chrismas. Showed him her heart and he’d been callous with it. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Not now.

"Oh, for God's sake!" he exclaims hands closing lovingly around her head and with no further warning capturing her lips. He kisses her slowly and so deeply that it floods through him. He’s kissing Molly. Molly is kissing him and the world goes blank. The only point of contact is where their lips meet. It goes on and on.

“Sherlock!”

There are red splotches on her cheeks, her mouth slightly bruised, from his kiss.

“What? Was that not good?”

He knows it was, knows that every physical evidence points at it being very, very good.

“A little warning!” Molly says, but the colour is spreading across her throat and cheeks. She’s surprised but in a good way. It makes him grin.

“Fine.” He allows, feigning long suffering forbearence, “next time I'll say, 'I'm going to kiss you now, Molly.' Is that acceptable?" He takes her hand, folding his hand into hers and gently walking her back to the flat.

"Next time?"

He cuts her a sinful grin. "It's your fault. I told you I wouldn't want to stop once I got started."


End file.
